


I come alive when I hear your voice

by foulrescent



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Drabble, Established Relationship, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Making Out, Smoking, Steve imagines a Bucky and just unhealthily rolls with it, Swearing, attempt at a blow job, hey angel song fic, steve can punch sharks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-12
Updated: 2016-02-12
Packaged: 2018-05-19 22:03:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5982310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foulrescent/pseuds/foulrescent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Romanov is looking at Steve. Her eyebrows are knitted in a frown. "What're you looking at?"</p><p>(Steve makes do with an imaginary Bucky a little after the ice)</p>
            </blockquote>





	I come alive when I hear your voice

**Author's Note:**

> This is so self-indulgent, but when isn't it?
> 
> \- Title from One Direction's 'Hey Angel'  
> \- There are excerpts from the song throughout this piece.  
> \- There's a smidgen bit of cancer talk, but it's light.  
> \- First drabble is set after the Battle of New York, others are self explanatory.  
> \- All mistakes are my own.
> 
> ENJOY XXXXXXX

_At the bar_ —

Steve thinks it’s a little surreal. He’s sitting in a damn bar; one that’s as destroyed as the last one he was in, but it’s a little brighter. The sirens are still whirring out in New York. They haven't stopped for hours. The booth he’s in has a cracked table, an arrow protruding from the middle. He plucks it out and examines it.

“For fuck’s sake,” Bucky says, beside him. He’s rolling his eyes, clad in a forest-green, long sleeved skivvy. It's ripped down half of his chest. His dog tags are hanging underneath it, the glint distracting the dirt smudged on his chest and neck. His hair is caked with mud, smoothed backwards as if he attempted to style it. There’s a cut underneath his left eye. “The only thing a bow’s good for is snapping in half and sparking a flame.”

Steve agrees, “Dernier had a nice trick to that. It seems to work for Barton, though.”

“How?” Bucky breathes onto his cheek, hot and comforting.

“He was in the circus, it said in his file. All sorts of strange things are in the circus remember? Bearded women and—“

“The young, strong men,” Bucky interrupts, a wondrous shade of blue in his eyes. Their thighs and knees are pressed together, Bucky’s shoulder leaning against Steve. “Of course I remember.”

“I doubt that you’d ever forget.”

Bucky knocks at his forehead, a cheeky grin on his face. “I’ve got a good head here, Stevie. I can remember all the way back to your bald head, when your ma thought you had lice.”

“Oh, God, Buck—“

It gets a little darker. Steve halts and stares up at the wide expanse of the door. There’s a jet right outside, the metal gleaming with the setting sun. The tail opens. Agent Romanov steps out onto the cement footpath, expression a little unsettled and hair still smoothed down in a stylish manner.

“Rogers,” she calls out, “There’s a bigger pity party going on at medical, you coming.”

“Whatta dame,” Bucky sighs, leaning back.

“You should get your shoulder checked,” she says, menacingly.

“I was just taking a breather,” Steve tells her and then slides on the seat of the booth, right through Bucky. He feels another heartbeat stutter with his, for just a few pumps, but then he comes to a stand and it’s all gone. He grips at the arrow a little harder and then picks up the shield.

“How could you with all this rubble?” Romanov questions, quirking an eyebrow.

Bucky snorts, “Funny,” and then he’s right beside Steve again, shoulder to shoulder and ankle to ankle, “Stevie, I’ll meet you back at home,” and he’s gone before Steve can ask, which home? There are plenty of places that Bucky and he have invested in. There’s Brooklyn, Ireland, London, Azzano and snowy mountains in the depths of somewhere. There’s that farmhouse that they shared with Commandos, the hotel room that they kipped in with Peggy and the tent that sheltered them from the rain that France sent down like bullets.

Romanov is looking at Steve. Her eyebrows are knitted in a frown. "What're you looking at?" 

“Let’s get out of here.”

 

 

 _At the edge of my bed_ —

There’s no sign of battle, if cancerous substances aren’t deemed a battle. There’s a box of Lucky Strikes and a lighter on Steve’s bed. Bucky’s sitting on the edge of the mattress, a waft of smoke wafting around his hair, out of his lips and into the air. The cigarette is sitting softly between his plush, pink lips and his throat is lush and bare. He’s leaning back, palms flat on the sheets and his white undershirt is rising high, skin and fair hair on display.

“It turns out that these are bad for you,” he’s saying, voice gruff.

“I thought you figured that out when Mr. O’Donnell hacked out a lung,” Steve evenly tells him, still scanning the room. The curtains are drawn shut. The lamp on the bedside table is on, lighting up Bucky’s face. The cut under his left eye is still there, but it’s fainter. Bucky’s hair is down, coming down the side of his face and into his eyes.

“Those were cigars,” Bucky responds, sounding mindful, “Those disgusting cigars that Mrs. O’Donnell would wrap up for him.” He inhales, nice and quick. Smoke arises from his mouth when he speaks, “You look good.”

Steve flushes. “You’re handsome.”

“Come on, baby,” Bucky says, “Sit with me.”

Instead of climbing into the bed, Steve fits himself between Bucky’s knees and then slides down onto his own until they hit the rough, hotel carpet. Bucky’s hands dig into his shoulders, relaxing the tense muscle. They can touch. Steve lolls his head onto Bucky’s left thigh, grips at Bucky’s ankle with a loose fist. 

Bucky huffs a little laugh, stinking of cigarettes. “I saw the files.”

Steve frowns. He rubs his thumb over the jut of the ankle joint. “What?”

“It says I’m MIA. Aren’t I supposed to be dead?”

“You’re supposed to be dead,” Steve agrees, shivering like he did when – “It was altered by Agent Carter.“

Bucky hums, “Peggy hopes too much.”

Steve closes his eyes. “You’re here now.”

“So is she.”

And then Steve’s head rolls onto the bed. A cigarette’s between his lips.

 

 

 _Back seat of my car_ —

“Imagine the steering wheel just flew off,” Bucky laughs, “What would you do then?”

Steve grins. Bucky loves Jailhouse Rock. “Jump out.”

He adjusts the volume on the stereo and Bucky mumbles the lyrics under his breath with exaggerated notes and then his voice is louder, deep and full of heart. He’s laughing then, high and mighty. The windows are open and Bucky’s hair, as it’s gotten so miraculously long from the weeks spent in France, flutters with the wind. He’s dressed in clean clothes, even has a tie. The cut under his left eye is crusted with dried blood.

“Where’s your trusty shield?”

Steve looks back to the road and pats the seat beside him, the vibranium swooning. “Right ‘ere.”

“It’s still painted like a fucking target. Stevie.”

“Your smile’s a target. I’m not complaining.”

Bucky leans forward, hands on each seat on each side of him. His face is so close, but Steve doesn’t dare tilt that way. Bucky hushes, “You’re a damn sap. My teeth aren’t that shiny. Pull over.”

The car rolls to a stop on the empty lane and Steve finally turns his face. Bucky’s mouth is on his right away. It’s sweet at first, closed mouthed and chase, but then Bucky has a hand on his hair and his cheek, then his neck. He unbuckles his seatbelt and leans over, grips Bucky’s tie loose.

Bucky’s mouth is open and he huffs a laugh when Bucky makes a choked noise. Steve bites at Bucky’s bottom lip and then kisses the corner of his jaw, tightens his hold on Bucky’s tie and latches his lips onto the smooth skin just at the parting of his jaw and ear.

“Get over here,” Bucky demands, playful, “I’ll suck you off.”

Steve gets out of the car, not risking the climb over to the backseat. He closes the door, obscuring the image of Bucky spread along the backseat. He stares onto the length of the empty road, sighing. He’s smiling, he notices. This quick and sudden event has caught him with a happy startle. He finally turns back to the car and then realises that Bucky can’t love Elvis Presley. The car's empty.

 

 

 _In the back of my head_ —

Steve looks down at the ocean. Bucky sighs, “Don’t even think about it.” 

He then turns to Natasha. “Too busy!” He shouts. And then he jumps.

“You dumb fuck asshole cock dickhead, son of a lovely lady that doesn’t deserve you! God bless her.” Bucky’s voice isn’t muffled by the wind. He isn’t falling beside Steve. “How fucking dare you? Asshole. You know what? I don’t fucking care. Have fun. I hope a shark fucking digests you!”

I can probably punch a shark out, Steve thinks.

“I’m not pulling your ass out when it knocks you right back. Motherfucker.”

 

 

 _It’s a beautiful sound, it’s a beautiful noise_ —

“Bucky?”

"Who the hell is Bucky?”

 

End. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading :-)


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